“So we’re left with just this sketch for Harriet Lane,” Stephanie said. “It was supposed to be part of the stage set with Buchanan on one side of the podium and Harriet on the other.” She sucked in her breath. “Poor Brad.”
“Did you know him well?” I asked the group.
“He was a newcomer,” Ed said, with a shake of his head. “No one had laid eyes on him until he arrived with both a Buchanan and a Harriet Lane commission in hand a couple of months ago.”
“I think they figured it would be better on the stage if the same artist did both portraits.”
Ed grunted. If he said anything besides muttering sounds, I couldn’t make out what.
“Brad had only been coming here for a few weeks. But he’d lived in town awhile and he was, like, still a colleague, you know?” Stephanie said.
“Right, newcomer or not, we knew him and he was killed right here on home turf,” Ryan said.
At the last phrase, Stephanie and Ryan looked around the hall, at their turf.
“We’re trying to decide whether to put up this sketch on the stage where the painting would have been,” Stephanie said. “Like, to honor Brad, or something.”
“I think it would be macabre,” Ed said.
“You mean creepy?” Ryan asked.
“Uh, what are museums full of, guys?” Stephanie asked. “Pictures by dead artists.”
I heard an involuntary gasp from my mouth. All three looked at me.
“She’s not as cold as she sounds,” Ryan said. He turned to her. “Or are you?” His tone was semi-serious.
“What are the alternatives to using the sketch?” I asked, to defuse the situation. I realized that the stressful atmosphere probably had as much to do with the idea of a murder being committed on their home ground as with the loss of the newcomer Brad Goodman in their lives.
“Ed thinks he can do a painting himself, in a week.” She punched him playfully, her trademark gesture apparently. “He thinks he’s as good as Brad Goodman. But I knew Brad Goodman, and he’s no Brad Goodman.” She laughed at her not-very-original jab.
Ed was not amused. “We’ll see,” he said, then turned and walked away. There was a lot of that going on in the young crowd these days, but Ed was older than June and her peers by about twenty years.
“Sorry, man,” Stephanie called after him, but he didn’t reply.
Stephanie looked embarrassed. “That wasn’t very cool of me, was it? It’s just that Ed thinks he’s a genius. He says he’s related to Edouard Vuillard and that he was destined to be an artist. I think he actually believes that.”
“That’s why his name seemed familiar,” I said. “From Art History 101.”
“Yeah, Vuillard was a Nabi, Ed says, and then proceeds to give us a lecture on what that is. We get a little tired of his pontificating. He also has a lot of money and lords it over everyone with his top-of-the-line art supplies. But still, I shouldn’t have been so crass. Ed’s been trying to get his work in a city-sponsored event for years and always gets rejected. I hope they let him put his painting up this time. I can’t believe I made fun of him that way. Sometimes I get a little too wise, you know?”
I patted her shoulder. “I guess we’re all a little skittish today,” I said.
A clatter of metal and what seemed to be a stampede of footsteps broke the hollow silence of the hall.
I turned to the large door a.
“It’s the television crew. They’re taping us again today,” Stephanie said. “I lost track of time. I’d better get everyone together.” She took a walkie-talkie from her belt and spoke into it. “Calling all hands. Channel 29 is here. If you want to be famous, come to the north wing.”
Sure enough, a group of people and equipment was approaching where we stood. What sounded like a crew big enough to cover a presidential inauguration was really only five people, with Nan Browne in the lead.
“Would you mind if I hang around for this?” I asked Stephanie.
“Knock yourself out,” she said. “That tall, good-looking black guy right behind Nan—he’s the producer. I have to go schmooze. Last time he came close to asking me to go out for a drink.” Stephanie rushed to greet the man who would make everyone a celebrity and possibly improve her social life.
I tried to make myself invisible (if not knocked out) as the television staff set up two cameras and a bevy of lights around one section of the work area. The focus was on a panel that I guessed was part of the debate mural.
I watched from the sidelines, partially hidden by the stack of paintings I’d been looking at with Stephanie and Ed. Both the unnamed producer and Nan pointed and shouted orders and the crew scrambled to follow them. I stood almost motionless through microphone testing and last-minute makeup applications on Nan’s face and that of one of the young female artists.
Out of nowhere it seemed, three rows of folding chairs appeared in front of the worktable that held the mural panel. Young people with paint-decorated clothing sauntered in and took seats. I wondered why Mary Lou hadn’t gotten a notice about the taping until I realized these were probably the muralists only. One man with a gray beard stood out—Ed Villard sat on an end seat at the front.
When Stephanie was free of logistics duty, she motioned to me to come out of the shadows and join her in the back row. “This is supposed to feature a—quote—representative muralist,” she whispered, “who just happens to be Nan’s daughter, Diana.” She pointed to the young woman wearing a paper collar, her face and eyes receiving attention from a makeup person.
A special monitor had been set up and placed far above the floor so we could all see what the cameras were picking up. Now and then the audience was panned (not as far back as Stephanie and me, I was happy to see), but most of the airtime went to Nan Browne’s interview of Diana Browne.
It went in part, like this:
“How does it feel to be part of a citywide event?” (Really neat.)
“Did you do any research to get in the spirit of the painting?” (I watched Cold Mountain.)
“Where do you see your career going after this?” (This is, like, such a great opportunity.)
“Do you have any advice for young artists?” (Yeah, work hard and, you know, stick with it.)
Except for the shared name and identical blond hues, a viewer would have no clue of the nepotism at work at Channel 29.
After five minutes, on the third or fourth question, Ed Villard lumbered up out of his chair, making a great deal of noise as he pushed it back. He exited right, muttering. I expected he’d be edited out of the final version of the show.
The taping was over in twenty minutes, which included one or two close-ups of Diana’s mural panel and another of herself, her blond hair flipped out accordingly. The equipment was collected, folded, or wrapped up as appropriate and put into large carrying cases with great efficiency.
As soon as Stephanie left me to help with the chairs and to chat with the handsome young producer, I zipped to the back of the hall, near the door. I took a notepad and pen from my purse and positioned myself to intercept Nan.
“What an informative interview,” I said. (Was that schmoozing?) “But I’m surprised you didn’t mention how one of the artists was murdered right in your studio. Wouldn’t that be big news for your audience?”
Nan looked at me as if I were a piece of lint that had fallen on her immaculate brown twill jacket. It took her a minute to recognize me as the interloper of this morning.
“You again,” she said. Then her face brightened as she noticed my notepad. “Are you a reporter? You should have said so. I thought you were just curious.”
“About the murder?” I asked, my pen at the ready.
“Today’s taping is not for our news program, which is very limited, as you know. We stress features over current news since it’s so difficult to compete with the Internet or even a daily newspaper.”
“I see” was all I needed to say to get her to keep talking.
“What you saw today is
for a documentary feature on this year’s Lincoln-Douglas debate from the point of view of public art. Our purpose is to highlight the talented men and women who have come together to serve the community in a special way.”
“Was the murder victim, artist Brad Goodman, one of the people you highlighted earlier for the documentary?”
“Mr. Goodman was a very talented artist who wasn’t shy about sharing his skills.” I made a note: Nan thinks Brad pushy? “Of course our hearts go out to his family and loved ones.”
“Did you know the victim well?” I asked, reporter style.
“Not at all. I only know of him now because of his unfortunate demise.”
“Were you able to help the police at all when they came to the crime scene at your studio?”
Nan frowned, but her desire for good press seemed to win out. “We’re doing everything we can to maintain and improve security at the facility. That’s all for now.” She pulled a card from a pocket on the outside of her briefcase. “Here’s my card. Please feel free to call me if you need anything else.”
I knew it wouldn’t be too long before Nan Browne found out I wasn’t a reporter. I wondered how quickly I could acquire press credentials.
From Stephanie’s big smile as she went about her cleanup business, I sensed that her flirting worked.
“I got a date,” I heard her tell a muralist.
So did I, in a way.
Chapter 9
The Lincoln Point jail was in the basement of the police department building, at the east end of the civic center complex. I’d been to the facility only once before today and didn’t look forward to this visit any more than I had the last one.
To prepare for the dank, clammy hallways under the old building, I treated myself to a double latte and a brownie at the coffee shop on the corner of Hanks and Springfield, across the street from the Rutledge Center. It was ten o’clock, legitimate break time for a working woman.
The day was perfect for walking. If I were ambitious, I’d have walked the mile or so down Springfield Boulevard to the jail. But fortunately today, as nearly every other day, I had an excuse not to. This morning it was my shoes, dressy flats that were a little uncomfortable around the instep. Another time it would be a tight deadline or a case of the sniffles. Anything could keep me from exercise.
Quite the opposite with my hobby. Very seldom did anything keep me from working on a miniature scene or a dollhouse project. I once got up from a sickbed in the middle of the night to glue a tiny lamp onto a desk. I’d awakened with the fear that a breeze from the open window would blow it away and I’d never find it.
I retrieved my car from the television studio side of the complex and now I drove down Springfield toward the civic center, another complex of buildings, but far different from the Rutledge Center complex. This one comprised stately white buildings that had “government” written all over them. As I approached the set of buildings, one of which was the police department, it was hard to ignore Skip’s voice in my head. It seemed strange to be this close to his office and not stop in, but I didn’t want him to discourage me from visiting Zoe.
An unusually large number of men milled around city hall, the building in the center of the complex. Tryouts for the roles of Lincoln and Douglas, I guessed. The tradition every year was to try to keep the winners a secret from all but the actors themselves. Thus, when the actors entered the stage on the night of the performance, the oohs and aahs of the audience would be all the more passionate and genuine expressions of excitement.
Mingled with the actors-to-be were a few more informal entertainers, many of whom were fixtures in town. One old man had been fiddling at the northwest corner of the city hall lot for years, his battered instrument case at his feet, ready for donations. An older woman, supposedly an artist at one time, worked her talent in chalk on the sidewalk, drawing nature scenes of rivers, mountains, flowers, and trees. Every evening the maintenance crew would wash down her masterpiece, and the next day she’d be there again, with her scraps of colored chalk.
I looked for Ryan Colson in the crowd as I made my way slowly around the circle, but all the short Stephen Douglas candidates were overpowered by the tall would-be Abraham Lincolns. I’d wanted to ask my nagging question, but not in the presence of Stephanie or Ed: was Ryan on duty the night Zoe did her damage? Had he seen her in person as opposed to on video? I hoped the opportunity would present itself before too long.
I parked facing away from the buildings and entered the police station by a door that led directly from the street level to the basement. Maddie wouldn’t have let me do this—she loved climbing the majestic front steps up to the office level. One more reason I was glad she was in school right now. The police station, the oldest building in town, dated back to days when public buildings were models of architecture and design. Most of us laypeople loved the structure, but my architect husband had called it Neo-Renaissance, which to him meant “nothing special.”
“It’s not Greek and it’s not Roman,” Ken would say. “It’s Lincoln Point.”
His profession was the one area in which he could be a snob.
On the downside of “old and classic” was the fact that the building was falling apart and nowhere was that more apparent than in the basement.
I looked past the peeling paint and littered corners in the lower foyer (Ken would have called it a mudroom) and was relieved and delighted to see a friendly face. Drew Blackstone, a student of mine in the nineties, was on duty.
“Hey, Mrs. Porter,” Drew said in the cheeriest, most non-threatening voice I’d heard all day. A large man, he lumbered up from a chair behind a desk that was as battered as the walls, the floor, and the ceiling of his workstation. I admired that he could be so jovial in these surroundings. This couldn’t have been a plum assignment and I hoped it was rotated through the department.
“Nice to see you, Drew,” I said, thinking what a lucky break that I wouldn’t need to go through a tortuous ID procedure and a long story about why I wanted to visit a prisoner. The bad news was that he might mention the occasion to Skip.
“What brings you down to these depths? Doing penance?” Drew threw his head back and laughed. “Remember when you taught us parts of The Divine Comedy? Well, I think this is, like, a circle of hell.”
“I’m so glad you remember.”
“I remember a lot from your class. I was thinking of you the other night when I was reading to my kid. You know you always told us to start early when we were parents and all. And little Davey, he loves books.”
It was always gratifying to hear that I’d influenced my students for the good, though I knew there were just as many whose memories of Mrs. Porter were not so positive.
I felt I owed Drew another few minutes of chat and inquired after his wife, also a former student (sadly, Amy lost her mother last month). We covered the weather (we sure needed that rain yesterday), the upcoming debate reenactment (not Drew’s cup of tea, thanks anyway), and the new popcorn store in town (twenty-three flavors, I was able to inform him) before I finally said, “I was wondering if I could see Zoe Howard?”
“Oh, yeah? You know her? Did you have her in class?”
“No, she’s from Chicago.”
“Right, no homegrown murderers in Lincoln Point, huh? Well, let me call back and see if she’s finished with her facial and pedicure.” My confusion must have shown. Drew followed up with, “Sorry. Jailhouse humor. We’re not always, uh, sensitive.”
To say the least. There was a lot of that going around. “Are there specific visiting hours?”
“Not really. But even if there were, I’d let you in anytime, Mrs. Porter. Let me call back and see what’s what.”
After a minute or so of phone talk that was filled with police jargon, Drew hung up. He removed his cap, scratched his head, and opened a large logbook. “I think Miss Howard still has a visitor.” He ran his finger down a column of names. Was the Lincoln Point jail that busy, or did the logbook go back a few year
s? “Yup. Here it is. Visitor’s still there. George came on while I was on break, so I wasn’t sure.”
I wondered about the protocol of asking who was visiting Zoe. Should I take further advantage of a former student who thought well of me?
No need to decide since, at that moment, the door to the hallway, where the cells and visiting rooms were located, opened and closed again with two loud clangs. Out walked a young woman in an expensive-looking suit. Zoe’s lawyer I guessed. She had a sharp chin, among her other striking features. She wore her pale blond hair pulled back, and looked vaguely familiar. There weren’t that many lawyers in Lincoln Point, and I spent enough time around the civic center, between the library and the police station, that I probably saw this woman among the general law enforcement population. She gave Drew a charming smile, me a disdainful look (was it my outfit?), collected her briefcase, and signed out without a word.
Drew scratched his head again. “Well, I guess Miss Howard is free now.”
“How do you know that was her visitor?”
He gave me a broad smile. “Come on, Mrs. Porter. How many prisoners do you think we have back there?”
I didn’t have the slightest idea and said so.
“We got one drunk who’s out like a light. That’s it, plus Miss Howard. There’ll be more DUIs over the weekend if you want to come back and visit them.”
“More jailhouse humor, Drew?”
He blushed. “You can go back. Lois will take you to Miss Howard and she’ll be right there if you need her.” Drew put his hand to his mouth for the next remark, as if he were sharing a secret in a crowded room. “The prisoner is a cutup, you know.”
Was this corroboration of Linda’s gossip (could you corroborate gossip?) or a bad pun to describe the slasher in his jail?
Malice in Miniature Page 10
